Mireille in Japan
by sydneyeliza
Summary: Mireille returns to Japan alone, years after the end of the series.
1. Mireille's flight to Japan

I don't own Noir, although I wish I did.  
  
If you see weird symbols all over, please click on VIEW at the top of your toolbar in IE, go down to ENCODING and click on UNICODE (NTF - 8). Thanks!  
  
Mireille in Japan  
  
Mireille took a deep breath as she stepped off of the airplane, murmuring "Arigatoo," to the flight attendants who smiled kindly at the young Corsican blonde who had traveled so far. Unfortunately, she wasn't outside in the Japanese environment yet-she was only in the walkway, and much of what she had breathed in was probably the same stuffy air that she had been living in for the last day. Nine hours on a cramped, unusually full airplane had left her with a nasty case of cabin fever.  
  
Mireille seized her bag in one hand so tightly that the knuckles showed white. She was hardly ever this anxious-the assassin, Mireille Bouquet, knew how to control her emotions perfectly. But she wasn't the assassin she had been years ago anymore. She'd given that self up five years ago, with Kirika.  
  
Kirika.  
  
For a moment the young Corsican's balance faltered and her step slowed. One of her fellow passengers looked up into her face in concern and said something in rapid Japanese, which Mireille caught very little of. Instead of replying she mustered a smile, refreshed her grip on her bag, and continued on her journey. She'd checked out a stack of books from her local library on Japanese and studied vigorously before she made this trip, but she still felt rather unprepared. After all, she'd had no practice listening to actual Japanese. The only Japanese she'd heard was her own weak whispers when she lay awake studying late at night. Compared to true Japanese, her words came weak and choppy, weighted down by a heavy French accent.  
  
She wouldn't allow herself to think of the past. It still hurt too much, like a raw wound that had simply been covered and left to heal on its own. These wounds never heal unless directly confronted; instead, they forever send their own little messages, reminding you of the raw pain.  
  
In the same way, Mireille had covered up the memory of Kirika, but it had never gone away. Even five years later the faint mew of a cat on the street would stir her awake at night and send images of Kirika spiraling through her tormented mind.  
  
She'd lived alone in Paris for those hard years. Now without the weight of murder on her mind, she knew she was free to do whatever she wanted. She could go back to school. Get a boyfriend. She was still young, still attractive, but those hard days had aged her beyond her years. Mireille had seen more in her short twenty-five years than most people do in their entire lives. She couldn't fit in with those chirpy, excited girls in any college. Nor could she restrict herself to books and solely study. After Kirika, Mireille had taken a simple, ordinary job as a librarian. She liked the peace and quiet that can only be found between bookshelves.  
  
She'd met many men there over the course of years, and had briefly amused herself by creating various personalities. To one, she would say that she was twenty years old and working a summer job to pay for college. To another, she might mention that she was a model in her spare time. Sometimes she said she was older, sometimes younger. At first she'd toyed with the idea of dating them, since plenty of them were interested in her, but she realized the idea revolted her. In her heart, there was always-and only-Yuumura Kirika. She hadn't loved the girl in a lesbian way, but in an unexplainably deep, reaching way. Kirika had been much more than a friend and a partner and Mireille had unknowingly grown to love her. She had never imagined it would hurt so much when the time came for them to separate.  
  
"No," whispered Mireille suddenly, breaking free of the iron grip of the past that had pulled her in again. "Not now, not now."  
  
She took a deep breath and lowered her head, rapidly striding out of the walkway and into the openness of Japan's Narita international airport. Fortunately there were signs in English. She'd mastered the hiragana system of writing, but not the kanji, and most unfortunately, much of the content of Japanese is written in kanji.  
  
Mireille found a restroom and stepped into it. From a side pocket of her carryon she procured a brush and ran it casually through her blonde locks. Knots snagged in the brush and she ripped them out impatiently. A young Japanese woman cast some curious looks at the willowy blonde busy destroying her gorgeous hair, but Mireille paid no attention.  
  
This is Kirika's world, she thought as she stepped back into the noisy airport. No, it wasn't. She remembered Kirika once telling her that she was more French than anything now. After all, it was in Paris that she'd begun to rebuild her life.  
  
I feel so alone without Kirika. Kirika should be here beside me, translating the signs for me, as we talk and laugh.  
  
Mireille felt the familiar tears prickle in her eyes again. She blinked them back and placed her bag in her other hand. Opening the door, she stepped outside, into Japan.  
  
Author's Note: It is never mentioned in the series what language Mireille and Kirika communicate in, but I'm assuming it's English, since that's what Kirika uses to first contact Mireille via email. Hiragana is one of the three writing systems of Japanese and mingles with kanji, which is basically Chinese characters with modified pronunciations. They are used together to write Japanese; the third system, called katakana, is used to write foreign words-for example, "Corsica" would be written in katakana.  
  
If anyone wants to give a better explanation of this, please drop me a line - sorry I'm terrible at explaining things. Please leave me a review; I don't really know how I did with this; it's just an idea that came into mind but I want to keep writing it. Arigatoo! 


	2. Last Conversation with Kirika

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 2  
  
People walked around everywhere in front of her, rapidly chatting in Japanese. Some were mothers with their children, laughing with each other while they walked. Others were businessmen, the kind that walked around with briefcases, their heads down, always hurrying to the next meeting. They wore suits and briefly reminded Mireille of all the Soldats they had killed.  
  
She closed her eyes and opened them again as a car drove past her, the breeze riffling through her hair. In the distance, she heard girls giggling wildly. There was a school there. Not Kirika's school, but simply a high school like the one she had gone to.  
  
Was Kirika even alive now? She didn't know.  
  
Instinctively she began to walk towards the school, directly into the street and forcing the cars to stop for her. Her gaze was focused solely on the girls. One of them had short dark hair with a messy curl to it. Mireille opened her mouth, ready to call out Kirika's name, when a mew at her feet caught her attention. She looked down to see a baby kitten with golden fur looking up expectantly at her.  
  
"Oh, not another cat," she said, wishing that the animal would go away and stop paining her with memories of Kirika. "Go away!"  
  
But the kitten just stood there, not insulted in the least, and mewed again. Sighing, Mireille bent down and gathered it into her arms. It licked her hand and mewed again, then was contently silent. Mireille stroked it and scratched it behind the ears as Kirika had taught her, and headed on.  
  
They wore neatly pleated dark green skirts and a matching dark green jacket over their white shirts, all of which were embroidered with the school's initials. A boy wearing pants of the same shade and the same jacket walked up and tapped the Kirika-like girl on the shoulder. She laughed gaily, waved cheerfully to her friends, and left with him. Mireille sighed. No, she was not like Kirika at all.  
  
She remembered how Kirika had looked that day at school. She had worn the same clothes, but anyone could tell at first glance that she wasn't like the others. She looked scared and unsure of herself, only waving stiffly when the other girls giggled and left her.  
  
The kitten in Mireille's hands mewed and looked up, batting a paw playfully at her hair. Despite her gloomy mood, Mireille smiled. "You really are a cute little thing, you know that?" The soft spring wind blew a lock of blonde hair into the kitten's face and it mewed in protest while clawing at it.  
  
Mireille laughed-truly laughed for the first time in a long time. She was content just to walk down the street now, a simple pleasure that she was able to enjoy without the constant fear of being watched. Cherry trees bloomed all around the tree and petals were torn off and floated in the soft wind. Mireille shivered a little. It was only early spring, and she had worn just a tank top and a skirt.  
  
"I'll find Kirika's house tomorrow," thought Mireille. The sky was a brilliant quilt of pinks and purples and red and oranges sewn into one gorgeous Japanese sunset. "For now, I ought to just find a motel and sleep."  
  
The kitten mewed again. Mireille looked down at her in concern. "What am I going to do with you? They won't let you in the motel," she said softly.  
  
She ended up hiding it in her bag, stifling its mewing, when she reached the first hotel she saw. The only sensible answer Mireille could come up with to most of the clerk's questions was "Wakarimasen" (I don't understand), but he was very patient and in less than ten minutes she had a room, which she understood was on the third floor. Most of all, she appreciated not having to even think of the possibility of his being a Soldat.  
  
Mireille opened the door to reveal a cozy little room with a bed in the middle and a TV. She shut the door and walked inside to the bed.  
  
"You poor thing." She opened her bed and the kitten happily bounded out. It mewed and leaped playfully around Mireille's legs, rubbing against her high black boots. "Be quiet, please," Mireille begged, but a smile was creeping onto her face. She bent down and scratched the cat behind its ears. It promptly mewed and began rolling on the floor.  
  
"I suppose I ought to give you a name. I wonder if you have one already? Where did you come from?" Mireille asked it playfully. She stood up and stepped into the bathroom to take a hot shower.  
  
When she came out, the kitten was fast asleep, curled up in the center of her bed.  
  
"Oh lovely. I wasn't anticipating having to share my bed with you," Mireille scolded gently, then clambered in beside it. She drew the kitten closer to her and fell fast asleep.  
  
= = = = = = = =  
  
"Mireille."  
  
"Kirika?" A gasp followed. "Kirika."  
  
Kirika said nothing, just stared openly with large miserable eyes at Mireille, who was still standing in the doorway, the door ajar. The clock behind Kirika sounded its deep echoing ring. It was nearly one in the morning.  
  
"Kirika." Mireille tried to find ways to explain. "We're different now. Before, we were bound by the name of Noir, but now." Her voice faltered upon seeing Kirika's unwavering expression. She lowered her head. "We've begun trying to lead normal lives. We've tried to put Altena and Chloe behind us. We."  
  
At the same time, Kirika started, "I-"  
  
Both stopped and looked at the other, waiting for her to continue. It was Kirika who broke the silence. "I miss-being Noir, Mireille."  
  
Mireille gasped. Kirika's expression remained. "How can you say that? Those were some of the darkest days of our lives. We made a living killing people, killing Chloe and Altena-"  
  
"No. I don't miss any of that. But we were closer then. We knew each other. Mireille-I feel like you're a stranger to me now. You're never home and when you are, we don't talk about anything anymore."  
  
The Corsican blonde made no attempt to apologize. "Kirika, when we were Noir, we had to know every aspect of each other's life and be able to read each other's minds. We've left that life behind. We're living like normal people now, people who-"  
  
"Don't need to know each other all that well?" Kirika cut Mireille off for the third time, and this time Mireille detected a bit of anger in her voice.  
  
She didn't want to reply with the word yes. To tell the truth, she was exhausted. She'd worked late at her job as a florist and been stuck in a traffic jam for nearly two hours afterwards. The last thing she wanted was an argument with Kirika.  
  
But Kirika was standing here in front of her, waiting for a reply.  
  
"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean," Mireille said slowly. "I'm not saying we're not friends, Kirika. It's just that we're each leading our own individual lives now and." Her voice trailed off. Kirika stared stonily at her, her eyes never leaving Mireille's crystal blue ones. "I'm exhausted. We can continue this in the morning. I'm going to go to bed now," she said, going up the steps that led to their bed. Behind her, Kirika stood motionless like a crystal in ore that had been standing for thousands of years, but Mireille had never looked back at her. She put on a soft pink nightgown and stretched out on the bed, instantly drifting off to sleep.  
  
The next morning, Kirika was gone.  
  
= = = = = = = =  
  
Mireille awoke to the gentle rays of sunlight dancing across her cheeks. She moaned, then shut her eyes and tried to sleep again. A soft paw with just a touch of claws swept across her face. "Ouch!"  
  
The last images of Kirika faded from her mind. Mireille sat up and rubbed her eyes and groaned. She'd dreamed of her last conversation with Kirika again.  
  
The kitten leaped into her lap and mewed, as if to say, "I still need a name!"  
  
Mireille absentmindedly scratched it behind the ears, still thinking of Kirika. She recalled how Kirika had stood motionless as a crystal, but just at that moment the kitten stood on its hind legs and batted at her hair with its paws.  
  
"Ouch! Okay, okay, stop it, I'll give you a name. I don't even know if you're female or male, but I'll call you Crystal anyway."  
  
It mewed contently.  
  
Mireille smiled and got out of bed, stretching her arms as she did so. Today she'd go to find Kirika's old house. 


	3. Journey to Kirika's Home

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 3  
  
Mireille took her time brushing her hair. She was beginning to regret pulling out those knots yesterday-already her hair was beginning to thin out, and she was just twenty-five years old. Crystal stood on the edge of the sink and watched her interestedly.  
  
"You lucky thing, you hardly have to do anything for that gorgeous coat of gold."  
  
Crystal mewed.  
  
"I guess I'm stuck with you." She pulled a lock back and drew it into a tight French braid. In an effort to forget Kirika and build her new self, she had tried various hairstyles. Nothing fit her as well as the simple draping about her shoulders, but she didn't mind the braid.  
  
Crystal mewed expectantly. Mireille sighed; she did hate having to hide the kitten in her bag, but how else was she going to get her out of this hotel? She tentatively wrapped Crystal in a couple of tank tops, leaving her head uncovered.  
  
Mireille checked out of the hotel (the clerk gave her some strange looks when she claimed that the mewing in her bag was caused by a toy she had bought for her niece) and walked down the street in the crisp spring air. She was in downtown Tokyo now and had no idea how to get to Kirika's ex- home from the ground on which she was standing. She let her mind wander back to that fateful day. . .  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"I. . . can kill people. . . this easily. But I wonder. . . Why don't I feel regretful?"  
  
Mireille watched suspiciously as a tear ran down the face of the Japanese schoolgirl who had claimed to be Noir. Eventually she interrogated the girl rather harshly, which was understandable given the wild chase she had been led on. Instead of answering then and there, the girl known as Yuumura Kirika led Mireille to her home.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille opened her eyes. She remembered that Kirika's home had only been a short walk from the school, and the school's name had been engraved in the wall. Excited yet apprehensive, she hailed a taxi and fortunately, the taxi understood her heavily accented Japanese.  
  
Now that she knew where she was headed, Mireille relaxed and enjoyed the scenery. They drove through busy city streets filled with banks and other large offices; later they passed through calm and peaceful neighborhoods where young children, too little to be in school, were outside playing. Little girls sat under the shade of a tree and played with dolls while the boys played dolls or chased each other with action figures.  
  
The mewing from her bag was growing desperate, and it drew Mireille's gaze back to the kitten.  
  
"Oh no, you must be suffocating in there!" Mireille quickly unzipped it and lifted the weak little kitten into her arms. It mewed weakly, but perked up after a few minutes of fresh air.  
  
The cab driver smiled at her in the rearview mirror. "Anata no neko wa kirei desu."  
  
Mireille thought quickly. She'd caught "Anata no", meaning "your", and "kirei", meaning "pretty" or "clean". She wasn't sure if she was being told that she was pretty or the cat was pretty, but she figured a simply thank you couldn't go wrong. "Arigatoo gozaimasu."  
  
They traveled in silence the rest of the way, until the school came into sight. The schoolyard was empty, which temporarily confused Mireille. The last time she was here students had been everywhere. She supposed they were all in class. She briefly wondered what day of the week it was, then gave up. She'd long forgotten.  
  
With a smile and another "Arigatoo", she paid the driver and stepped back into a schoolyard she hadn't visited in six years.  
  
The air was deadly silent and it seemed to Mireille that it was filled with suspense. Had Crystal not been there with her, she might have turned back, but the little kitten's mews gave her courage and she pressed on, searching for the dirt path bordered by bamboo shoots that Kirika had walked down many times. There-there it was. Evidently no one had used it for awhile, as the bamboo plants had luxuriously spread out and nearly covered the entrance. Mireille took a deep breath, then brushed them aside with one hand and stepped inside. She almost wished for her gun to protect her in case someone came out from behind a tree-something she hadn't wished for since they had left Altena's shrine.  
  
The canopy of bamboo and other deciduous tree leaves had woven a thick mat that prevented nearly all sunlight from coming in. Crystal mewed in distress, but Mireille paid no attention to her. She climbed over dozens of dead trees before coming to a clearing, where a flat area of grass stretched out and eventually reached a road. Just beyond that was an apartment building that Mireille recognized at once.  
  
It was a little different now. The trees that had once grown around the building had been replaced with gardens of flowers in a multitude of colors. Laundry no longer billowed from the balcony railings. Mireille steeled her resolve and walked towards it.  
  
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Across the room, a woman was sitting at the counter going through some papers. She looked up at Mireille with a warm smile and said, "Ohayoo gozaimasu. Ogenki desu ka?"  
  
Mireille understood the simple greetings and was able to respond with "Good morning! Yes, I am well, thank you."  
  
The woman launched off into rapid Japanese, and soon Mireille was waving her hands desperately. "No, no-I mean, iie, iie! Wakarimasen!"  
  
The woman stopped and looked curiously at Mireille for a moment, then called to someone behind her. A young man dressed in an impeccable suit came out and said crisply in lightly accented English, "Good morning, madam. How may I help you?"  
  
Mireille thought, and then quietly replied, "I'm here to visit a friend of mine."  
  
"Ah, madam. Who would that friend be?"  
  
There was a slight pause before she responded, "Yuumura Kirika."  
  
The woman gasped and the man looked shocked. They exchanged glances before the man replied, "Madam, perhaps you are not familiar with the story of the Yuumura daughter."  
  
I know it better than either of you will ever know, thought Mireille impatiently, but she managed to put on a curious expression and said, "No, what happened?"  
  
"Apparently the daughter had been living alone there for some time, although she never spoke with any of the neighbors so it is not known exactly how long. One day she simply stopped attending school and when her apartment was checked, it was discovered that she was simply gone."  
  
Mireille managed to look shocked.  
  
"A full search was conducted and it appeared that her disappearance had been planned. Her clothes were gone, the dresser empty. Had the daughter been kidnapped, she would not have had time to pack. The neighbors and school waited, but she never returned. It has been six years since she vanished."  
  
Mireille said nothing for a moment in order to give the impression that she was thinking this over. Then she asked, "May I see her room?"  
  
The man and the woman switched uncomfortable glances, but at last the man said, "Yes. I must warn you, madam, that it has not been touched since the Yuumura daughter's disappearance. People around here believe that it is haunted and refuse to go near it. Some even avoid the floor altogether."  
  
"I don't care," said Mireille in a rather impatient tone, and regretted it at once. It had been much too harsh for the polite and delicate etiquette expected of Japanese people. The woman blanched just at her tone of voice and then man simply stared for a moment before saying "All right. Right this way, madam."  
  
He led her into an elevator and pressed the number five button, which Mireille noticed was the only button not worn by use. Inwardly she scoffed. How superstitious were these people anyway?  
  
"Right this way, madam." He led her down a familiar narrow aisle and opened room 523 with a key. "Here you are."  
  
"Thank you," Mireille said. He bowed and said, "I shall leave the key with you, madam. Please return it to us downstairs when you have completed your. . . your visit."  
  
Mireille smiled at him and stepped into Kirika's apartment, closing the door behind her.  
  
It was just as she remembered-only much, much dustier. All the furniture was in its exact same place, the washed dishes still stacked neatly by the sink. There was a bamboo plant near the window that had long wilted from lack of water, its leaves curled and brown. And before she knew it, Mireille Bouquet, once the most reliable contract assassin, was on the floor sobbing.  
  
She'd come to find Kirika. She'd known that Yuumura Kirika wasn't here, but in her heart, harbored a tiny hope that Kirika just might have returned to Japan. After all, where else would she go? Even the man's story had not destroyed that flickering flame of hope. Mireille felt as if invisible fingers had just closed around the flame, destroying it and leaving in its place a void of nothingness.  
  
"Kirika, Kirika. . ."  
  
Crystal's soft mewing drew her attention back to her surroundings. She was kneeling on the floor, her hands balled into fists on the ground, her head resting on the hard wooden floor between them.  
  
"I'm sorry," whispered Mireille, to no one and everyone at the same time. "I'm so sorry, Kirika."  
  
Author's Note: "Neko" means cat; therefore the cab driver was telling Mireille that her kitten was pretty.~*~ Mireille ~*~ 


	4. Memories of Kirika's home

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 4  
  
Mireille's tears made round pools in the dust on the floor. She pressed her fists against the floor, giving way at last to the helpless rage of tears that she had kept bottled up inside her heart for five years now.  
  
"Kirika. . . why did you leave me?"  
  
Slowly she raised her tear-stained face and looked around. Kirika had evidently not returned since she had left for Paris with Mireille six years ago. Mireille stood up slowly and stepped over to the short wooden table. Its surface was dusty and unused, but the short, thick little wooden legs still held it up. Six years ago, they had sat at this table-each kneeling on the floor, and Kirika had told Mireille all she knew about herself.  
  
Mireille had not trusted her then. Today she would give her life for the girl she had come to love.  
  
She sniffled, then pressed her right hand into the sheet of dust, creating a small cloud of dust around her fingers. Carefully she repeated the action with her left hand, then above the handprints, wrote her name in cursive with the tip of one finger. It was something she had done many times as a child-something she had loved to do whenever she had encountered any dusty furniture in Corsica or Sicily. Today, however, the handprints seemed weak and pathetic. Mireille swept her fingers across it, destroying the image.  
  
Crystal came to her side and mewed expectantly, but Mireille ignored her as she rose to her feet. She had never seen the rest of Kirika's home before. Just beyond the main room, there were two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a tiny bathroom. Kirika's family, or whoever had pretended to be her family, had not been very luxurious, although every room was well furnished. The photographs of Yuumura Fusai and Kirika with her supposed parents still stood high up on a shelf.  
  
Mireille wandered into the first bedroom. This had evidently been the one that whoever had pretended to be Kirika's guardian had slept in. The walls were a bland off-white and the sheets were white. The rest of the furniture consisted on a desk and a dresser. There was a closet built into the left wall, which Mireille opened. Not surprisingly, nothing was there, not even empty clothe hangers.  
  
There was nothing in the drawers of the desk either. Mireille left the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
The next room was clearly Kirika's room. Mireille could hear Kirika's voice as if it were yesterday, saying, "When I woke up. . . I was already here."  
  
In the far left corner, Kirika's bed, made of a dark colored wood, was pushed tightly against the wall and the gray blankets were folded carefully. Mireille strode to the window beside it and threw open the curtains, coughing in the dust. Sunlight poured into a room that had been blue with loneliness for years.  
  
Mireille turned around and gasped in surprise, although it was only her reflection. A large oval mirror stood by the door and a coat rack beside it still held Kirika's school uniform.  
  
There was a dresser by it. Mireille took a breath and opened it. There was nothing there, only a layer of blue-green satin where Kirika's gun had once rested beside the pocket watch. Mireille sniffled and a tear fell onto the satin, making a dark, wet spot. She closed the drawer and walked briskly to the kitchen.  
  
She found paper towels and detergent and soap, and went to work at once cleaning the entire apartment. Mireille didn't quite know why she was doing it, but this place wasn't Kirika anymore, and she'd come to Japan to find Kirika. Somehow, she thought, as she scrubbed the counters, if she cleaned it up, it might seem like the home Kirika had lived in. Mireille squeezed the bottle of soap and squirted it onto her towel.  
  
She worked all day without stopping to eat or rest. Only Crystal's desperate mewing drew her out of her frenzy at sunset.  
  
"You must be hungry," said Mireille, without looking at her. An angry meow drew her attention away from the windowpane. "What? I said-oh."  
  
Mireille stood up and threw the rag into the sink, pausing only briefly in front of the refrigerator. There couldn't be anything edible in there. She picked up Crystal and scratched her ears. "I'll get something to eat," she said. "Don't go anywhere."  
  
Outside the apartment, Mireille closed the door and muttered, "Why am I talking to her like I would Kirika?"  
  
She picked up two loaves of bread, a sack of potatoes, and a jug of milk at the closest supermarket she could find. Unfortunately she didn't know the words for "cat food" and had a hard time trying to explain to the clerk. In the end, she picked up a bag of buns and paid for her purchases  
  
"Crystal? I'm home." Mireille let herself in and shut the door. "Crystal?"  
  
A faint mew came from Kirika's bedroom. Mireille stepped in and found her curled up on the bed, lashing her tail around gently. She laughed and tore a bun in half for her to eat, then stepped into the kitchen. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn't even know if there was electricity, but if there was water, there should be. She rinsed a couple of potatoes and put them in the oven to bake.  
  
She was exhausted. Mireille returned to Kirika's room and stretched out on the bed, stroking Crystal, but fell asleep immediately.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Spanish music played outside her window and the singers, wearing large straw sombreros, sang along loudly. She paid no attention.  
  
Kirika had left the United States several days ago to treat herself on a vacation to Spain. In addition to Madrid, she had also visited Avila and Arevalo, and was now on her final stop in Segovia.  
  
She'd spent the last couple of days touring Segovia. The aqueduct had proved to be of most interest to her, before. Built of stone in ancient times by the Romans, the ancient aqueduct had been used to transfer water from the mountains until a few decades ago.  
  
In two days she would fly back to the USA, where Spring Break was almost over.  
  
Kirika had become a Japanese teacher at a local high school in Providence, Rhode Island. Her English was fluent and her Japanese still in top shape. She had been the perfect candidate for the job.  
  
But now she was here in Spain, and as much as she tried to kill the thought, it just wouldn't die. She was so close to Mireille in France. The hurt of Mireille's rejection had never faded. It had been a hasty and perhaps not well-thought out idea to leave France, but Kirika had never regretted it. Either she would have to live with Mireille as part of her, or she would have to leave everything she had ever known and start all over again.  
  
Kirika's eyes darkened as she wondered again if Mireille ever thought about her anymore. She imagined Mireille married to some wealthy French gentleman and raising her own children at home. Mini Mireilles. She could easily do that, thought Kirika, with her wonderful looks and build. She had wanted to fit in as a normal person, after all.  
  
Kirika imagined Mireille's expression if she just showed up at the door. Would Mireille be shocked? Angry? Happy?  
  
Kirika buried her head in her pillow, drowning out the singing. I might never get another chance to see Mireille again, she thought. She picked up the phone and called the airline to change her flight schedule.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
A loud bang woke Mireille. In addition, Crystal had fled the sanctuary of the bedroom and ran to the kitchen, where she was now hissing at the oven. Another pop ensued.  
  
"The potatoes!" Mireille jumped out of the dusty bed and ran to the oven, quickly turning it off. Ten minutes passed before she was able to get the three potatoes out of the oven, two of which had exploded. She opened the window to let some of the hot air out.  
  
Her potatoes were ready to eat but she was going to need something to put them on. Warily Mireille eyed the stack of plates and sighed. More washing.  
  
Before she knew it, Mireille Bouquet was beginning to make herself at home here in Tokyo, Japan. 


	5. A Past that never lets go

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 5  
  
A big thank-you to all my reviewers! I got the notification emails while I was in Cancun, Mexico (just came home a few minutes ago) and it was great to know you liked my story!  
  
"I hate doing the dishes," declared Mireille aloud, to no one in particular. She'd never bothered to do it by hand at home; she'd simply stack them in the dishwasher and wait until it was full, but here things were completely different. Kirika's dishwasher was so old and dusty that it took Mireille all of ten minutes just to locate. Furthermore, when she tried to operate it, the machine spewed soapy water all over her. Mireille was not amused. Neither was Crystal, who was still wet and bedraggled- looking from the spray.  
  
"Sorry," Mireille apologized. "I'll give you a bath when I finish with these plates."  
  
When the plates were finally finished, she gave Crystal a slice of bread on one of them, then settled down to eat her baked potatoes, only to find that she had nothing to eat it with. Extremely frustrated now, soapy water still dripping from her hair, Mireille threw open cupboards and drawers until she found something that suddenly made her stop.  
  
Its dusty silver handle was in her hand before she knew it, but she did nothing else for a few minutes, simply staring at it in a mixture of sadness and remorse. A slight twist of her hand and the sunlight streaked down the handle. She touched the fingers of her other hand to the four sharp prongs. Twice as many as the one she remembered. Twice as deadly, in the right hands.  
  
It had always been Kirika's weapon.  
  
The force of the past was becoming stronger again, overwhelming now, no matter how Mireille fought against it.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"LIAR!"  
  
Chloe let one of her knives fly and it hit Kirika by surprise, knocking the gun out of her hand. Mireille sat dumbfounded, staring helplessly, numbly.  
  
Kirika caught the second blade nimbly and Chloe launched into a jump, landing on her feet just before Kirika, and slashed at her viciously with the knife. Kirika used her blade only to defend herself and made no attempt to attack the purple-haired girl. Mireille did not-could not-move.  
  
"Stop, Chloe!" Kirika screamed, their blades slashing through the air. "Please!"  
  
"You and Mireille living in Paris," hissed Chloe, "it was..it was.!"  
  
Mireille was taken aback by Chloe's words. Was Chloe. . .jealous?!  
  
"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME!" shrieked Chloe. This was not the cool and composed Chloe that knew what she was doing and did it with no regret and no emotion. This Chloe had lost all control.  
  
Kirika jumped backwards and let the blade fall through her fingers. "Please, Chloe," she implored, her voice down to a normal tone now, "stop now."  
  
Chloe's hand quivered. The blade remained at Kirika's feet. Chloe closed her eyes, then slowly held up the fork. Kirika said nothing as Chloe studied it before throwing it to the side.  
  
"Chloe," whispered Kirika.  
  
Chloe said nothing, just turned and closed her eyes. Then, without warning, she pulled out a blade and began to run, pointing it in not Kirika's direction-but Mireille's.  
  
"CHLOE!" screamed Kirika.  
  
Chloe did not move. The only sounds from her were a faint, weakening gasp, followed by the word "Noir". Mireille could only see her from under Kirika's arm, and she said nothing, only lowered her head in shock and grief. But it was Kirika who wept, Kirika who shed tears for the girl she had killed. It was Kirika who held the two-pronged fork to Chloe's chest and Kirika who felt remorse now.  
  
"Chloe was. . . another me," Kirika said, tears still streaming down her face. "I . . . can kill people. . . I'm sad because I kill people."  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille held up the fork slowly, then let it fall. It sank into the potato in front of her, the prongs piercing deep. The sight of it made Mireille want to retch. She ripped the fork out of the potato and tossed it into the sink.  
  
She sat down on the couch, causing it to emit a huge puff of dust. Crystal mewed and leaped up into her lap, and she stroked her soft fur without really noticing. Chloe's death had never touched Mireille as much as it had Kirika, but it had marked a turning point in their lives. Kirika had hardly ever spoken about Chloe again after they left Altena's shrine, but Mireille knew the memory had never left her mind. A few days after Kirika had left, she had found a crumpled up piece of paper in the trashcan and smoothed it out to find a drawing of a purple-haired girl. Kirika had signed it before drawing a deep slash across the entire drawing. She wondered sometimes if Kirika still painted.  
  
Mireille stood up and picked up her potato before ripping it in half and taking a bite. She hadn't noticed she was so hungry, and devoured one potato after another, using only her hands. When her plate was empty, she stood up and stepped to the window.  
  
She looked down and was surprised to see that the view wasn't altogether that much different from her window in Paris. There were sprays of cherry trees along the road in Japan, but otherwise it was almost the same. Mireille leaned out of the window, looking down, and watched dark heads walking back and forth. One young child was rather reluctantly following his mother when he happened to look up and notice the Corsican blonde. Suddenly his face broke into a smile and he waved at her. Surprised, Mireille waved back and heard him laugh before his mother dragged him away.  
  
The sun sank behind the cherry trees, a sizzling ball of flames struggling to illuminate the world in its last moments before night. Mireille rested her chin in her hand and suddenly felt as if this was her home. She loved Paris, loved the culture and traditions, but her memories of Paris were always cloaked in the dark memories of murder. Noir.  
  
One of her first actions after leaving Altena's shrine was to get rid of her gun. She had no need for it anymore, and she knew it would only remind her of the past. Mireille remembered Kirika's surprised expression as she told her she was going to get rid of it-and heard Kirika's brief reply, "Un."  
  
She hadn't bothered to encourage Kirika to get rid of her gun. Sometimes she wondered if Kirika still carried it around.  
  
Mireille had spent ages wondering what was the best way to destroy such a weapon-a gun that had taken the lives of countless Soldats and even her Uncle Claude. He was to Mireille as Chloe had been to Kirika. His memory had weighed heavily on her mind in the days after Noir, and she had deeply regretted the murder. He had given her so much and saved her life, but she had had no choice in the end.  
  
She couldn't consider donating the gun or selling it. She didn't want to ever see it again, yet she couldn't bear the thought of someone else running their hands over it, examining it closely. Even Kirika had never been given that right.  
  
In the end, Mireille had made a brief trip back to Corsica, and left the gun in the dilapidated mansion where her parents had been murdered. She made a vow then and there, never to return to Corsica.  
  
She hadn't ever expected to come to Japan, but back then she and Kirika had been on good terms. Even several days after Kirika left, Mireille refused to believe that she was gone. She would keep telling herself, "She went to the grocery store. She found something new to paint. She'll be home soon."  
  
But Kirika never came. 


	6. Last Conversation with Mireille

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 6  
  
Kirika's bags were packed, but she wasn't scheduled to leave her hotel room for another hour. She stretched out, her hands balled into fists, her feet pointed like a gymnast's. In five hours she would see Mireille.  
  
There was a knock at the door, and reluctantly Kirika sat up. She'd forgotten to hang the "Do not disturb" sign on her door again. In soft Spanish she asked the cleaning woman to come back in an hour. Closing the door again, she returned to her bed.  
  
In addition to her love of painting, Kirika had discovered an uncanny talent for learning languages. She had been warmly received into the group of language teachers at the local high school and they often ate lunch together and talked about students and such. Kirika had become especially close to one of the Spanish teachers who had once been to Japan (none of them knew she had lived in Paris for almost six years), and the young Colombian had somehow unknowingly ignited a desire to learn Spanish inside Kirika's heart. Later she would have to admit that part of the reason had probably been to take her mind off of Mireille, but the more she studied, the more interested she became in not only the language, but also the culture. In her spare time Kirika had checked out books from the library and perused them late into the night, also relying on websites for further information. The bottles of paint and canvases she had bought in her first few months in America were thrown aside and forgotten for the time being.  
  
In five years she had built up a solid basis of knowledge of the Spanish language and culture, as well as enough money to make a short trip to Spain. Whenever she stepped into her friend's classroom, her eyes were inextricably drawn to the map of Europe, first to Spain-and then to France, where they stayed. Many times she had stayed, staring at the tiny little black star labeled "Paris" until the bell rang and she had to hurry to get back to her own class.  
  
She missed Mireille terribly those first few, lonely days in Rhode Island. Kirika had taken up a tiny but cozy apartment of her own yet never spoke with any of their neighbors. It had been harder for her than Mireille to fit into a normal life, but she had had more success than the Corsican blonde. No one looking at her today-not even Chloe or Altena, had they been alive-would have recognized her as the tiny child who held a gun up to Roland and Odette Bouquet.  
  
Unlike Mireille, she still kept her gun. It was here in Rhode Island with her, unloaded and ironically hidden in a drawer beneath layers of clothes she never wore. She had experimented with fashion and makeup after arriving in the United States, but most of it had wound up as a cloak for the Beretta. She didn't intend to ever use it, just kept it to remember the Corsican, the blonde that she still loved. The young woman that she had once tried to kill with the same gun.  
  
Kirika left her room and locked it securely behind her, carrying one of her two bags on each shoulder. Outside, she called a taxi. "El aeropuerto, por favor," she instructed. He nodded and she sat down inside.  
  
The brunette turned people's heads everywhere she walked in the Segovian airport. Most Segovians had never seen a Japanese before and stared at her as she walked briskly past them.  
  
On the plane, Kirika fell asleep almost immediately, still thinking of Mireille.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
The sun set slowly down behind the building facing Mireille's apartment as the clock struck seven. Kirika sat on Mireille's chair before her computer, facing the pool table. Briefly she amused herself by playing with the colorful pool balls, but grew tired of the smashing sounds. The balls sat at random locations now, silent as stone.  
  
The apartment grew darker and darker, though Kirika didn't bother to turn the lights on. She wanted time to think over what she wanted to say. She still loved Mireille deeply, but felt as if she was becoming less and less important every day. Something had to change, and Kirika hoped it would be for the good.  
  
Outside, the city grew quieter and quieter as night fell. Soon Kirika was sitting in blackness, illuminated only by a few rays of moonlight. She walked to the window and looked outside at the road below them. There was no sign of Mireille, only a pedestrian now and then. Kirika was lonely and worried, anxious about how Mireille would react.  
  
She didn't sleep, but stayed for hours more. When the door finally opened and Mireille's dark shape came in, it made straight for the bed.  
  
"Mireille."  
  
The word was hurried, not sounding the way she would have liked for it to sound. Mireille stopped and turned to look at the bed. "Kirika?" She gasped upon noticing Kirika's silhouette moving towards her. "Kirika."  
  
Kirika didn't say anything. Her carefully planned out sentences had become a jumble of words in her brain, and she tried desperately to reorganize them. Mireille stood in the doorway, and although Kirika couldn't see it in the dark, her eyes suddenly widened in understanding. Kirika opened her mouth to speak, but Mireille had begun first.  
  
"Kirika, we're different now. Before, we were bound by the name of Noir, but now. . .we've begun trying to lead normal lives. We've tried to put Altena and Chloe behind us. We-"  
  
Kirika broke in at this point, but got no further than "I-" before her throat closed with emotion that she could not bear to release. Mireille stopped, crossing her arms across her chest. Although Kirika couldn't see her face, she knew that the expression on Mireille's face was an impatient one. (However, Mireille could see Kirika's facial expressions, due to the moonlight and their different positions in the room.)  
  
Kirika whispered, "I miss-being Noir, Mireille."  
  
Mireille gasped. Kirika wondered if it was out of shock or disgust. She knew that Mireille had deeply hated and regretted their days as Noir and wanted to forget about those times. Her voice was slightly wavering, yet filled with as much annoyance as astonishment as she said, "How can you say that? Those were some of the darkest days of our lives. We made a living killing people, killing Chloe and Altena-"  
  
"No," Kirika cut her off. She didn't want to think about Chloe, didn't want to think about Altena. She took a deep breath and went on. "I don't miss any of that. But we were closer then. We knew each other. Mireille-I feel like you're a stranger to me now. You're never home and when you are, we don't talk about anything anymore."  
  
She had told Mireille her feelings now, and she felt as if she could relax. Mireille knew how she felt and would change her ways to suit both of them better now. Instead, Mireille's sharp voice cut into Kirika's thoughts like a laser on glass.  
  
"Kirika, when we were Noir, we had to know every aspect of each other's life and be able to read each other's minds. We've left that life behind. We're living like normal people now, people who-"  
  
"Don't need to know each other all that well?" The words were out of Kirika's mouth before she knew it, and her tone was angry. Mireille noted it as well and was silent for awhile. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly softer.  
  
"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean," Mireille said slowly. "I'm not saying we're not friends, Kirika. It's just that we're each leading our own individual lives now and."  
  
Kirika waited stonily for her to go on, but the Corsican blonde said nothing and only stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Neither said anything, but Mireille broke the pregnant pause with the only thing that could have hurt Kirika more than a direct rejection. She brushed her off-as if she was something unimportant-yet again.  
  
"I'm exhausted. We can continue this in the morning," she pointed out as she stepped up to their beds. "I'm going to go to bed now."  
  
Kirika was shocked and hurt beyond words. For almost another hour she stood there, hoping that Mireille would speak again, but when she heard her ex- partner's soft breathing in the silence of the night, she knew it was over. Anger and hurt streaming through her veins now, Kirika packed her bags. She didn't bother to be quiet, figuring that if she woke Mireille up, she might be able to talk some sense into her, but that just didn't happen. Finally Kirika Yuumura stood by the door of the Parisian apartment, her bags by her side, and Mireille lay undisturbed and asleep in bed.  
  
Kirika opened the door and stepped outside. She didn't know where she was going, but it didn't matter anymore.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"Señorita, por favor despiértate. Estamos llegando en Francia."  
  
"Gracias," muttered Kirika sleepily as she sat up. Having woken her up, the flight attendant smiled and hurried off to wake another sleeping passenger.  
  
Kirika had just pulled her seat upright when there was a bump and a loud whirring noise from the engines. Disappointed, Kirika looked outside to see only the runway. She had been expecting to see the French countryside come into view as they descended, but had slept through it all. And she'd dreamed of her last conversation with Mireille-something she had never dreamed of before.  
  
This was the same airport that she had landed in six years ago with Mireille. Back then she'd been cautious and afraid of everything; today she breezed through customs and was out of the airport within thirty minutes. She called a taxi and headed straight for Mireille's apartment.  
  
Little did she know that at that moment, Mireille was sitting in her old home in Japan, wishing that she would come home. 


	7. In Opposite Countries

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 7  
  
Kirika pushed open the door to the apartment building and closed it quietly behind her. Directly facing her was the staircase; to her left stood the mailboxes. Kirika pulled Mireille's mailbox open without thinking. There were no strange letters from Soldats. She shut the metal cover with a clang and ascended the stairs.  
  
She had a key that she'd kept with her when she left France, and now Kirika slowly inserted it into the keyhole and turned. The door clicked and opened to reveal Mireille's apartment, exactly how she remembered it. Kirika stepped inside.  
  
She marveled at the lack of change. The pool table, the lamps, the beds- everything was in its exact same location. Kirika felt as if she had stepped back into the past and Mireille would be walking in at any moment, back from shopping.  
  
Mireille. . .  
  
"Mireille?" called Kirika tentatively.  
  
There was no answer. Kirika closed the door and turned the lights on. Three identical lights shone down on the pool table, creating three pools of light. The balls were scattered around in random locations, each quite stationary.  
  
It was obvious that Mireille still lived here. For one thing, she'd left her computer here, the screen still open. The large leafy plant was gone, however, and had been replaced with a smaller plant that was weakly blooming soft pink blossoms. For a moment they reminded Kirika of the cherry blossoms in Japan, and she felt a twinge of homesickness.  
  
Brushing that away, she stepped into the other room and sat down in one of the round, one-person sofas and sighed in delight. She had missed France, missed Mireille after all. The apartment was full of memories. Kirika had sat here in this same chair while studying Rosalie Hammond's profile all night; in the adjoining room, they had had a "moonlight tea party" with Chloe.  
  
She noticed suddenly that Mireille's moped was leaning against the window and found it surprising that Mireille had not taken it with her, but then again, it was not unusual for the Corsican blonde to go shopping on foot. Many times Kirika had carried her packages for her while she stopped to examine a hat or pair of shoes.  
  
Eventually Kirika grew tired of poking around the apartment and went to the kitchen. A small jar of tea leaves sat on the counter and Kirika smiled, remembering that her talents were much better than Mireille's when it came to making tea. She prepared a cup for herself, then pulled out pots and pans and ingredients to make a surprise meal for Mireille when she came home.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille had cleaned out Kirika's entire apartment in the span of a week and in the process, inhaled more dust particles and sneezed more than she probably had in her entire life. Crystal didn't like it either, often choosing to hide in a room that had already been cleaned or had been left untouched for the moment. Mireille wasn't just cleaning to make it seem more like it had been when Kirika lived there; she was cleaning now to make it livable. She had slept in a bed of dust the first night and had not found it comforting.  
  
She knew she couldn't stay much longer; in fact, she was due to return to France in just two days. Mireille had to admit that she had truly wanted to just find Kirika, make up with her, and bring her back to France. It hadn't worked out that way. It hadn't even come close. It seemed stupid, now that she thought about it.  
  
And Crystal. . . She hugged the furry kitten to her cheek even as it mewed in protest. She couldn't bring her back to France with her; all foreign animals and agriculture were strictly prohibited. Mireille smiled, thinking of how she had yelled at the kitten to leave her alone, to stop reminding her of Kirika, before she had grown to love the little animal.  
  
Mireille smiled. She would spend tomorrow exploring Kirika's school. It had seemed bigger than she remembered, although she wasn't quite sure why, and the warehouse beside it was gone, a department store in its place. Another smile worked its way into her facial muscles as she remembered the wild chase Kirika had led her on.  
  
Outside, the sun began to slowly sink in the sky, casting rays of orange over Mireille and her kitten. Mireille propped her head up with one hand and used the other to stroke Crystal, both legs comfortably stretched out on the bed.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika sipped another cup of tea, her third, and watched the French sunset. Mireille had been gone a long time, and Kirika was expecting to see her walk in at any time, her hands full of purchases.  
  
The table was laden with various dishes of French, Japanese, and American cuisine. Kirika had been almost bouncing with excitement when she had turned off the stove for the last time and poured her food from the pot into one of Mireille's fancy dishes. Even setting the table had been a delight. No memories had come to mind when Kirika had set out the forks, only excitement and anticipation.  
  
Even that had been nearly three hours ago. The food was growing cold on the plate, the top layer becoming dry and stiff. Kirika eyed the window anxiously, feeling the first worry that Mireille might not be coming back. She couldn't see why, though; the apartment was teeming with signs of life, except for the plant. Kirika poured a glass of water into the pot and sat down to wait. It felt much like that night five years ago. . .  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille stood at the edge of the woods, her little pink and white handbag in her left hand and Crystal tagging at her heels. She'd overcome the task of telling the apartment manager that she was living in the old Yuumura apartment (just for a few days, she had hastened to add upon seeing the couple's shocked faces) and was now on her way to Kirika's old school. She paused for a moment, then stepped boldly into the woods, pushing branches aside as she walked through the forest.  
  
It was early morning, and the students were just beginning to arrive. Mireille watched from a distance as they strode up to the door, all wearing matching uniforms. Most of them were chatting and laughing with each other, each carrying their schoolbag. Mireille suddenly felt very out of place.  
  
Most of them had come by bus, train, or simply walked by foot. One of the boys held a baseball in his hand, playfully tossing it up and catching it again while carrying on a conversation with his fellow classmates.  
  
How had Kirika fit into this group of Japanese teenagers? Mireille wondered. She'd watched from the other side of the school that day, far away where Kirika would never notice her. The young Japanese girl had stood there silently, her head slightly lowered, not meeting the eyes of her schoolmates, until two girls had come over and eagerly begun a conversation with her. Mireille had not been able to see her face, but by her hand gestures and movements of her head, was able to deduce that Kirika was responding and seeming fairly normal, just shy. The two girls had smiled and waved amiably when they left. Only Kirika's hand had waved in a rather unsure manner before she turned and left.  
  
Perhaps Kirika had not been all that different from how Mireille had once been. When her Uncle Claude had first brought her away from Corsica, Mireille had hardly spoken for days, only clutching her teddy bear close. Even when she had enrolled in school the following year, it took her months to open up and weeks afterwards to develop friendships. Girls and boys alike had tried to take to her, but Mireille hadn't known how to respond. It had been crucial that her friends and teachers not know of her past; therefore no one understood why she acted so and no one chose to help her. Mireille had been alone. For the first time, ironically six years after meeting the girl, Mireille understood how Kirika must have felt, reflecting on her own memories.  
  
One girl stood alone in the midst of people, clutching her schoolbag tightly and keeping her head bowed. Only her eyes looked up timidly, observing the people around her. She shifted her feet uncomfortably and brushed her hair back. Her glance suddenly came to rest on Mireille.  
  
Mireille's eyes widened in surprise, as did the girl's. Overcoming her initial shock, Mireille smiled. Blankly the Japanese girl stared, then smiled and managed a wave, though her fingers moved stiffly, separately, as if rusty from lack of use.  
  
A sharp bell cut through the air and the students instantly scattered. The girl lagged behind for a moment, looking curiously at Mireille, then smiled and waved-truly waved in a single fluid movement-and hurried after her classmates. Mireille was left alone in the empty yard.  
  
She truly understood how Kirika's life in those days had been.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika could hardly see the food now, shrouded in darkness, and there was no sign of Mireille yet. Alone, quietly, Kirika began to eat.  
  
Author's note: Sorry this chapter took so long. . . I feel like it lacks the Noir charm? I think I've worked out how it's going to end, but not quite how it's going to get there. Please leave me a review and tell me how I'm doing and what you think I should do with it; Thanks! 


	8. Saying Goodbye

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 8  
  
Kirika had slept sitting in the chair at the table, her head beside a carefully prepared plate of surimi, the ends of her hair dangling millimeters above the food. Slowly she opened her eyes and closed them again quickly, not wanting the glare of the sun in her eyes. Keeping them closed, she raised her head and rubbed the left side of her face. It felt oddly flat after sleeping on it for hours.  
  
Her first instinct was to jump up and talk to Mireille-but Mireille wasn't there. Disappointment hanging over her face and mind, Kirika scanned the room for any signs of Mireille's presence. There were none. Even her moped remained in the same place, leaning against the window. For the first time, a pang of shock running down her spine, Kirika noticed that it was beginning to gather dust. Not a lot, however, she noticed, running her fingers along the soft leather seat. Perhaps Mireille had been gone about a week already.  
  
Kirika was shocked.  
  
"Mireiyu. . ." she whispered quietly, her gaze traveling around the room and finally coming to sit on the plant.  
  
The pink flowers were blossoming up nicely now, looking nothing like the wilted plant Kirika had encountered when she first arrived. Almost refusing to believe it, Kirika came to the realization that the flower had been dying from lack of water. Lack of Mireille to water it.  
  
"No," whispered Kirika quietly. "Mireiyu. . . come home. Onegai. . .  
  
"Onegai!"  
  
The word escaped from her throat as nothing less than a shriek, and Kirika was sharply reminded of the last time she had screamed so. It had been when she was at Chloe's hands, when Chloe was telling her what she had done. . . what she was. . .  
  
Kirika stared around her in shocked silence and expected one of Mireille's neighbors to bang on the door, demanding to know what she was yelling about in Japanese so early in the morning.  
  
Kirika put her head back down on the table-the right side on the table, freeing her left cheek, and groaned. The tips of her dark hair dipped in the sauce and Kirika impatiently brushed them out. Everything here was so. . . that of Mireille, except Mireille herself was missing.  
  
And the wallpaper was changed. Kirika laughed bitterly at the fact that it had taken her so long to notice.  
  
After living with Mireille for so long, Kirika had grown to understand her tastes, grown to understand the Corsican blonde's mind better than she did herself. They could go shopping and Kirika, the one who had no interest in shopping, could pick out what Mireille would buy before Mireille could even find it.  
  
It was a paler shade of pink now, leaning more towards purple than red, but parts of her apartment had still been left their natural pale blue. To Kirika the lighter color symbolized Mireille's light-heartedness, partnering with her carefree feelings. She hadn't cared about Kirika's departure.  
  
In fact, Kirika realized, Mireille had made no changes to her lifestyle at all since she had left. Not even a single piece of the furniture had been moved. Three stylish lamps still hung delicately from the ceiling. Wrongly Kirika interpreted this to mean that Mireille had not cared that she had left. She sat down on the steps leading up to the bed and put her head to her knees, sobbing tears of disappointment.  
  
Only the plant had changed, she remembered. Was that because she didn't want to remember my pouring water into the old one?  
  
"It'll probably just turn black now."  
  
Kirika looked up slowly at the pink-blossomed plant. It had not wilted; its leaves were taut and rigid, filled with life within those fresh water replenished cells. She wiped her eyes with her hand and left the apartment.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"Don't follow me."  
  
There wasn't a tone of voice that Mireille hadn't tried with Crystal yet. She'd coaxed and scolded to no avail at all. The cat wasn't leaving her, and still tagged along everywhere she went, even if it was from the bed to the chair.  
  
"What am I going to do with you?" Mireille said wearily, and sank into the chair. She crossed her ankles and interlaced her fingers, placing them behind her head to form a rest for her tired neck. Crystal hopped up onto her lap and mewed enticingly.  
  
"I can't bring you back to France, you know," said Mireille honestly, her blue eyes wide as she stroked the kitten's ears. Crystal closed her eyes and mewed, rolling back and forth as if she had no worries at all. Mireille sighed.  
  
"I'm sorry, Crystal," she whispered.  
  
Crystal did not respond. Mireille continued to rub her and felt a tear running down her cheek. There was just tonight left before she had to leave to return for Paris. If only she could stay longer. . . but Mireille already knew that it was hopeless. Kirika would never return to Japan; if she intended to, she would have done so earlier. And Crystal. . . Mireille sighed again, rubbing the kitten's ears harder than usual in a gesture of affection.  
  
"Gomen nasai," she said quietly, using Japanese this time. "But we just can't be together. I can't stay in Japan forever and you can't come to France with me. . . ever."  
  
Crystal responded with a sad mew that seemed several octaves higher than normal. Mireille closed her eyes and thought of Kirika, a gentle tear running down her cheek now.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
On the way back, people stared at Kirika not because of her nationality-but because her hands were so full. The young Japanese girl's hands were filled with pots of paint, canvases, brushes, and other art materials that she knew she would only use once.  
  
But this once would matter more than it had any other time in her life.  
  
Inside Mireille's apartment, Kirika flipped a light switch and the three hanging lamps came to life. She laid out her canvas and unscrewed bottles of paint on the pool table and carefully dipped in her paintbrush into a bottle of deep red. She had bought supplies in America, but had never used them-Spanish had been her new obsession. Painting had been a thing of the past, been a thing of France-of Noir. She spread a thick layer of red on the canvas.  
  
The old familiar feeling was back. Kirika smiled.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"Please. Onegai. . . onegai shimasu."  
  
Mireille was practically pleading by now, but the kitten didn't get the point and tagged along happily at her heels. In despair, she ignored it while dropping off the keys to Kirika's apartment with a polite "Arigatoo," and opened the door to the outside.  
  
It had been hard to leave, harder than she had imagined. In just five short days Mireille had grown so attached to the past. Kirika wasn't there, but the essence of Kirika was everywhere, although it was Kirika the amnesiac- Kirika who didn't know anything about herself. Kirika's essence had long since fled their apartment in France.  
  
Mireille had left everything exactly how she had found it, although much cleaner and neater. There was nothing to say, nobody to say goodbye to. She closed the door and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. It was as if another door of the past had closed in her heart, leaving an empty void within her.  
  
She walked down the streets of Japan, wearing her tall black boots and her usual red shirt and short black skirt, a pale purple trench coat on top. Crystal followed her as she strode down the sidewalk, ignoring the looks that the Japanese people gave her. She couldn't look at the kitten. The cat had never reminded her of Kirika as much as she did now. The pain was too much to bear.  
  
Mireille raised her hand, calling a taxi, and when it pulled up in front of her, Crystal mewed desperately as Mireille's hand touched the metal car door handle. Mireille turned to look at her for the last time. "I'm so sorry," she whispered in English, pulling the car door open. "But I can't take you with me."  
  
And with that, she stepped into the car, tears welling in her eyes. The last thing she heard was a high-pitched mew as she shut the door.  
  
Mireille cried silently, tears sliding down her cheeks, all the way to the airport. She dared not look back at the kitten sitting miserably on the side of the Japanese sidewalk that she had left behind.  
  
She didn't even know if it was the old pain of having lost Kirika or the new heartache of saying goodbye to Crystal that made her more miserable, but it didn't matter anymore. She had said goodbye to a part of her past and couldn't open it up again, no matter how many painful reminders she encountered.  
  
Author's Note: I don't know why but this chapter seemed really sad and writing the end made me cry. . .I think I've grown to love that little kitten. . .  
  
Anyway, please leave me a note and tell me how I'm doing; I'm considering doing a sequel to this story but I don't know if it merits having one. . .? 


	9. Mireille's flight to France

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 9  
  
To all my reviewers: Thank you all so much!!! I didn't realize you all liked this story so much : )  
  
"Arigatoo."  
  
Mireille stepped out of the taxi and brushed her hair back. After paying him, she picked up her bag and onto the sidewalk. Behind her, the taxi pulled away. He'd offered her plenty of sympathy and tried to comfort her on the way, but it hadn't helped as she couldn't understand much of what he was saying, nor could she understand her own feelings.  
  
She was back at Narita airport and didn't want to leave, didn't want to accept that Kirika wasn't here-wasn't even in this country. Mireille took a deep breath and actually had to keep herself from looking behind her to see if Crystal had followed her. She knew she hadn't.  
  
A Japanese family walked by, chatting and laughing, the youngest child reaching for a strap on the family suitcase and receiving only a scolding from his mother. Mireille watched them walk by, wondering what it would like to have a family of her own. The father was clearly a businessman, dressed smartly in a suit and talking rapidly in Japanese on a cell phone, paying no attention to his family. The mother, on the other hand, was consumed in keeping her two littlest ones' hands away from their bags while the older daughter looked as if she would have liked to proclaim that she was not related to these people.  
  
Mireille wondered if Kirika had a family yet.  
  
A car honked behind her and startled her. Mireille turned around and quickly made a gesture of apologizing, moving aside. Yet another family began to unload their bags. Mireille sighed and started towards security, her head bent low.  
  
She paid very little attention to what they were asking her. No, she was not bringing anything flammable; no, she had not been asked by anyone to watch their bags for them; no, she had not brought any souvenirs worth over $10,000. She had not brought any at all.  
  
Mireille came to her gate earlier than she'd expected. With thirty minutes to go until boarding, she decided to take a stroll around the airport and perhaps check out some of the shops.  
  
There was a florist nearby, and Mireille spotted a pretty potted plant that resembled the pink flowered one she had at home. It would be nice to be home in France. She missed her job at the library, riding around on her moped, just enjoying herself. Until she began to live as a normal young woman, she hadn't felt truly relaxed. There had always been the threat of danger, betrayal, and the like. The only time she had truly relaxed was when she and Kirika had visited the beach years ago-and then, they had been thinking only of their next targets.  
  
She didn't want to think of Kirika and turned to leave the florist, but turned so sharply that she crashed into another Japanese woman and knocked both of them over.  
  
"Oh!" exclaimed Mireille. "Go-Gomen nasai!"  
  
The woman laughed and picked herself up, saying something along the lines of "Oh no, it's all right," but Mireille wasn't paying attention anymore. She stared, transfixed at what was in the woman's hand.  
  
Her left hand was up by her mouth, her eyes semi-closed in a smile, but Mireille noticed none of that. The woman did not have long gray hair; she had short, carefully curled ebony black hair. In her right hand she held a bouquet of belladonna lilies, something Mireille had not seen-had rather avoided-in five years.  
  
The belladonna lilies. Dux. Noir. Kirika throwing the popcorn on the casino floor.  
  
The storeowner hurried to give her a hand up, asking her if she was okay. Still dazed, Mireille realized she was still sitting on the floor, and hurried to get back on her feet. She was attracting a lot of attention. Blushing, the Corsican blonde murmured her thanks and apologies, and hurried off.  
  
She was annoyed at herself for letting a flower bother her so much. Mireille stopped to smooth out a wrinkle in her skirt and take a deep breath. She didn't realize that many at the florist were still staring after her.  
  
Mireille checked out a few more shops but purchased nothing, then returned to the appropriate gate. If only she'd brought a book or something to occupy her hands. . . Mireille closed her eyes and tipped her head back, ignoring the stares she was attracting from other Japanese people. She was beginning to get used to it.  
  
They were boarding before she knew it. Mireille opened her little red and white bag and pulled out her boarding pass.  
  
Just the sight of planes always made her tired, which was why she preferred to avoid them. It was much more comforting to drive along in her own car, where she could stay fully awake and observe the infrastructure around her. That had always come in handy when she had been one of Noir, but now it was purely for enjoyment. Mireille found her window seat and sat down, closing her eyes immediately. She had slept on the way to Austria, while looking for Langon's Manuscript, and she intended to sleep all the way home to France. Nine long hours before she would be back in Paris.  
  
It was several minutes later when she sensed someone was nearer than the aisle, her assassin instincts kicking in. Mireille opened her eyes and sat up. Her seating companion was a little girl of roughly four or five years old, accompanied by her mother. Her hair was short and spiky and reminded Mireille of someone she did not wish to think about. The Corsican blonde closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat as far as possible.  
  
"Hello!" the little girl exclaimed brightly. "My name's Anna! What's yours?"  
  
Mireille was taken aback by the girl's openness and her accent-less English, for she appeared to be Japanese in all aspects.  
  
The mother apologized profusely for her daughter's rude outburst, but Mireille only smiled and made direct eye contact with the girl. "My name is Mireille."  
  
"Are you French?" asked the girl out of pure curiosity.  
  
Perhaps this was how Kirika looked when she. . . no, thought Mireille, pushing the thought away. This child was so cute and full of playfulness. By the time Kirika completed the mission to Corsica, she was almost certainly a puppet of Soldats. The thought brought tears to Mireille's eyes.  
  
"Miss Mireille?"  
  
"Oh. . . no, I'm from Corsica," she said, suddenly wishing the child would stop. Everything here brought back memories of Kirika, she suddenly thought angrily. Only in France, in my new life, can I be free from the past, from Noir. Why did I even make this trip to Japan?  
  
"Where is Corsica? Why are you going to France?" asked the little girl, turning around so she could face the Corsican blonde. "Mommy! My seat belt is too tight!"  
  
The embarrassed mother ordered her child to face the front and stop bothering "the nice lady". "I'm so sorry," she apologized again.  
  
"It's all right," said Mireille, and pulled a blanket up over her shoulders, turning so that she faced the window. Behind her the little girl jabbered on about other things, her flow of words not at all stemmed by her mother's order. Mireille's eyes were almost closed when she saw movement- something else that had come from years of training to become the perfect assassin. Sleepily, half-annoyed, she opened her eyes a little more, then sat up straight with a gasp.  
  
"Crystal!"  
  
"What is it, Miss Mireille? What is Crystal?"  
  
Mireille ignored her. It was raining outside and the poor little kitten stood not fifty feet from the plane, lifting its head to look up at the passengers inside. There were probably several hundred golden-furred kittens in Tokyo alone, but Mireille knew-just knew in her heart-that it was her precious kitten Crystal.  
  
The rain was batting down viciously and the kitten's fur was matted and thick around its crystal blue eyes; yet to Mireille they seemed to emit an aura of despair and hurt. It struck her that she had seen that look in Kirika's eyes many times during their days as Noir and before.  
  
She extended her fingers out towards the kitten, knowing that the glass would stop her, but did so anyway. Mireille saw the kitten's lower jaw drop in the motion of making a mewing sound though no sound came to her. Then, without warning, the cat turned and ran away at top speed, never looking back.  
  
Mireille's hand was still on the glass window. Part of her wanted to call out to the pilot to stop so she could run out and hold her kitten close, but she knew it was hopeless.  
  
"Oh, a kitten!" exclaimed Anna. "Is that your cat?"  
  
Mireille turned to look at her in shock. It was a stupid question, but the girl had no idea how close she had hit. Extremely ashamed and embarrassed now, the mother subjected Anna to an extreme scolding and saved Mireille from answering the question.  
  
The plane began backing out onto the runway. 


	10. Kirika's Painting

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 10  
  
A slight jolt and a few cheers roused Mireille out of a dead sleep. Someone had already pulled her seat up to the upright position, but hadn't bothered to waken her. She pulled the window cover up and looked outside. It was already evening here in Paris. She was home.  
  
The passengers filed off the plane in a single line, often stopping and waiting for other people to pull the bags from the above compartments. Mireille was impatient but said nothing. She just wanted to get home to a good cup of tea.  
  
She was anxious to get out of the plane and walked quickly through the walkway. When she entered the airport, her first instinct was to run towards the exit, but a childish voice behind her called, "Goodbye, Miss Mireille!"  
  
Mireille turned in surprise. The mother's face was plum by now with embarrassment. "Goodbye, Ki-Anna," she said. The little girl's face contorted with confusion, tipping her head to the side, but Mireille smiled and headed on.  
  
She had parked her car outside, under the trees, and walked to it under a glowing blanket of red and orange sunset. It was so nice to be back in her own car and her own new life, away from the past. Mireille started the engine and backed out of her parking space, paid the toll, and was soon driving down the highway. She took down her braids at a red light and let her long blonde curls fly in the wind. The sun shone in her eyes and kept her half-blinded all the way home, but she didn't care.  
  
Mireille parked her car and stepped out of it, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She walked around to the front of the apartment building and in turning passed a young girl, thinking only of a nice cup of tea as her hand swept across her face in a motion to sweep back her hair. Then the girl's image flashed through her mind again.  
  
A young Asian face with wide brown eyes framed in a spiky black haircut.  
  
Mireille whirled around, her lips forming the name, but the girl was already past her and rapidly becoming lost in the sea of people. Not knowing what to make of it, Mireille stood on the sidewalk and didn't move, her mind racing.  
  
It couldn't have been her. Why would she have randomly come to France? And if it had been her, though Mireille reassuringly to herself, she would have noticed me and would have stopped. If it had been her we would be talking now. A smile worked its way onto Mireille's face as she realized one more thing. Kirika would never have worn those clothes. Tight hip-hugging jeans with flares and an off-the shoulder summer type just didn't fit her.  
  
Or did they now? After all, they hadn't met in five years.  
  
It was too late to wonder anyway, decided Mireille. It had probably just been another Asian girl that had looked like Kirika to her.  
  
Wondering if there was any of her favorite tea at home, Mireille stepped into her apartment building and automatically reached for the handle to her mailbox, then paused. It was crooked. Her hand hesitated as Mireille wondered whether or not she was being silly to think someone had opened her mailbox-and if they had, her mind reasoned, what could they have done? It wasn't as if she was receiving any mysterious letters from Soldats anymore. She pulled it open, then clanged it shut again after noting that it was empty.  
  
The feeling of intrusion grew stronger and Mireille grew more and more suspicious until she reached the point at which every few minutes she would stop and look around her, knowing there was nothing. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance and her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag, though her gun wasn't there. Mireille hesitated, then continued up the stairs.  
  
There was no hesitation as she threw open the door, knowing fully that she had nothing to protect herself with save a duffel bag filled with clothes. In the doorway she hovered and waited for her intruders to show themselves.  
  
There were none.  
  
Confused now, Mireille entered the apartment and shut the door behind her. Everything was exactly as it had been; no furniture was moved, nothing was stolen. Even the potted plant was flowering-but Mireille didn't remember it flowering. How could it have flowered after having not been watered for a week? Mireille walked through the kitchen and saw nothing askew. Her plates and pots were carefully washed and sitting in their separate cupboards, as she had left them. Had the flower mysteriously bloomed on its own, or was she dealing with something more complicated?  
  
Mireille stepped into the main room and let out a gasp. There, propped up on her chair, leaning against the edge of the pool table, was a beautiful painting of a classic French setting, one that Mireille recognized. She had taken Kirika to this very spot when they had discussed their next target, Cressoit, so many years ago.  
  
There were trees beside a little stone path with remarkably detailed people walking back and forth. To the right, there appeared to be a little outdoor restaurant, with separate tables and chairs, each with an umbrella shading the occupants. People sat eating and chatting, and one little boy appeared to be chasing a ball. Two young maidens sat at a table near the actual stand of the restaurant. One was dark haired and wore a T-shirt with the French flag on it, while the other was blonde with long hair, wearing a pale lavender shirt. She appeared to be browsing a magazine.  
  
As Mireille studied in the still-wet painting in shock, she noticed a tiny word written in between the colored stripes of the girls' umbrella. Squinting her eyes, she could barely make out the word "Kirika".  
  
Kirika had been here.  
  
While she had been in Japan.  
  
Kirika had come, and she hadn't been here. Mireille felt faint with the shock of it. And-she extended her fingertips out to the painting again-it was wet. Apparently the painting had just been completed, and Kirika had just left. Mireille wanted to scream with the irony of it, only to gasp in shock again when she realized that the girl walking by her apartment-had most likely been Kirika.  
  
She ran back to the kitchen and tore open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that Kirika might have left her. Everything was neat and perfect, the dishes dry as a bone. Mireille tore open the cupboard under the sink and looked in the trashcan, suddenly slowing her actions. There was food of every kind in there. Someone had been living here. Kirika.  
  
Mireille raced to the potted plant and lifted it up. There were no letters. She ripped the sheets off the beds, tossing the pillows to the ground, all to no avail. Only the painting had been left as a sign that Kirika had been here; everything else seemed to be gone.  
  
Slowly she made her way back to it. She had made a trip to Japan, found Kirika's old school and apartment, only to return and realize that Kirika had taken up temporary residence in her own apartment in France. If only she hadn't stopped to say goodbye to that annoying little girl in the airport, thought Mireille ruefully. If only she'd taken an earlier flight. If only she hadn't gone to Japan in the first place. . .  
  
Mireille reached out to touch the painting again, noticing the pains Kirika must have taken to paint it. She had done such an elaborate job that even the expression of the little boy who was chasing his ball was clearly visible. Examining it closely, Mireille could even see rings on some of the women's hands.  
  
She picked up the painting, being careful not to touch the wet oil, and saw jars and brushes stacked up behind it. Her eyes widened at all the supplies she had bought. Kirika must have spent a fortune to buy all this, she thought, to paint this painting for me.  
  
Filled with regret and emotion, Mireille closed her eyes. Outside, the sun sank slowly and was gone. 


	11. A New Beginning

Mireille in Japan, Chapter 11  
  
Author's Note: Although I was supposed to go to France (and Spain) this summer, I never did get to go (we went to Mexico instead), and hence I have no idea what the Paris airport is like. . .all details are purely my imagination. : )  
  
Kirika hadn't brought any heavy baggage that needed to be checked in, just two bags-one, in fact, that she had purchased in Spain to contain all her souvenirs and gifts for her friends in Rhode Island. She ran her hand over the yellow embroidering of the words "Segovia, España". She'd come on this vacation to enjoy herself and to relax, but after leaving Mireille's apartment and doing some deep pondering, she wasn't sure if she had achieved that goal or not.  
  
She stepped into a chamber of the revolving door and entered the noisy airport again. Kirika walked through the very hallway where Hammond had once stood, waiting for his daughter, but no memories stirred in her mind. Her eyes were focused only on the wide TV screens displaying the lists of arrivals and departures.  
  
Flight 295, direct to Providence, Rhode Island, was on time. Kirika increased her pace.  
  
The Paris airport was a grand building, with terminals and gates in every direction Kirika looked. To make things more confusing, there were gift shops and restaurants in every corner-as well as several McDonald's. Kirika smiled wryly. Those Americans spread everywhere, she thought, and remembered with a happy smile that she was one of them now.  
  
Despite the fact that she had just arrived in this same airport two days ago, Kirika still felt like a moth trapped within the intricate web of a clever spider. She wasn't flailing madly for life, however. She had almost an hour until her flight would depart. One bag slung over her shoulder, the other one's wheels running smoothly on the floor as she pulled it by its black plastic handle, Kirika stepped onto a moving walkway, not caring if it was leading her in the right direction or not. She wanted to savor her last moments in France-perhaps she would never return to France again. She didn't know.  
  
Did she care? Well, yes.  
  
Advertisements for restaurants and tours to the Eiffel Towel and the Louvre were hanging by the wall, crying out for tourists. Kirika watched them go by, a small smile playing about her lips. In all her days in France she'd never visited either of those places.  
  
There was a map at the end of the walkway, and Kirika studied it for a moment. Gate C14 was just down the hallway; she was going the right way.  
  
Kirika took a seat and crossed her legs. She reached into her little pull- along suitcase and drew out some Japanese essays that she had yet to grade for her students. From her other bag she plucked a red pen and began to scour the papers for errors. Most of them were done quite well, with only a mistake here and there, consisting mostly of mixed up hiragana symbols, but a few were covered with red scratches when she was done. It looked, Kirika thought disappointedly, like someone had bled all over it. She toyed with the idea of sending the student back to first year. He certainly wouldn't pass the exams if she let him stay, anyway.  
  
Kirika checked her watch. Just forty minutes until takeoff, and presumably they would start boarding half an hour before that. There wasn't enough time to do anything else, so Kirika crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back.  
  
She knew people were walking back and forth behind her and had relaxed, something she had become very good at. Kirika didn't tense up at all, didn't even notice when someone walked up and stopped right behind her chair.  
  
"Kirika?"  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
The moment stretched on forever. Mireille had felt her voice surge up through her throat, her lips move to form the name, but now there was nothing. She wanted to talk, but had no words and no voice. All she could do was stare.  
  
Which was what Kirika did. Kirika didn't dare believe it at first-wanting to-but afraid to, knowing that it couldn't be Mireille. You're seeing things, she told herself sternly, and tried to close her eyes, to shake her head and free her mind of the image. But her eyes wouldn't close, a silent protest to her brain, insisting that it was telling the truth.  
  
The moment stretched on forever. Kirika was different now, Mireille reflected, and it showed in every inch of her still-lithe body. Those deep brown eyes were still wide and huge in the Asian face, but now they were open not from confusion and hurt-they were the large, open eyes of a warm and friendly girl. Around her neck hung a little golden locket, weaving in and out of the lace neckline of her off-the-shoulder shirt with her every movement. Her jeans, Mireille noticed, had fringes down both sides, falling cowgirlishly over the white sandaled feet. Only the spiky mop of hair remained the same.  
  
Mireille hasn't changed, thought Kirika, surprised thoughts whirring around in her mind. I thought she'd be married now, with kids and a family. But no, she still wears the same clothes and keeps her hair the same way; she's still-  
  
"Mireiyu," whispered Kirika, but the word came out as a strangled cry of happiness. "Mireiyu!"  
  
She was kneeling on the chair now, her fingers grasping the edge of the cool leather seat, a wide smile blooming on her face as Mireille's face broke into a wild grin of joy and threw her arms around the Japanese girl. Kirika freed her arms from Mireille's iron grip and wound them around the Corsican blonde's neck, whispering, "Mireiyu, Mireiyu. . . Mireiyu. . ."  
  
"You came," whispered Mireille, feeling tears of joy well up in her eyes.  
  
"No," said Kirika, who was having trouble forming words due to the huge grin in which her face seemed permanently plastered, "you came!"  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
People walked by, smiling at the joyful reunion they were witnessing, although they had no idea what had happened between the two girls. Mireille and Kirika paid no attention.  
  
They held each other for a long time, the hard back of the seat between them, exchanging no words at all. Finally Mireille loosened her grip and Kirika saw tears in her eyes. Tears of joy.  
  
"Come and sit over here," she said, patting the seat beside her. Mireille happily obliged and Kirika found herself reluctant to let her past partner walk even the short distance away to circle around the row before coming back to her side.  
  
Mireille tucked her arm around Kirika's shoulder again and Kirika leaned contently against her. "How did you find me?" she asked.  
  
"I called every airline I could think of and checked all of them for your name, since I had no idea where you were flying to. You led me on a wild chase," Mireille laughed.  
  
"I didn't know you would be chasing me," whispered Kirika.  
  
"I saw your painting," said Mireille, her voice of a softer tone now, "and then I. . . I couldn't let you go without telling you. . . I'm so sorry for that night. I'm sorry for letting you go, for not taking you seriously-"  
  
She seemed to have choked and didn't go on. Without hesitation Kirika replied, "It's all right, Mireille. I was never mad at you. When I left France, it was a hasty decision and probably not the best one. . . but it was one I. . . I have never regretted."  
  
Kirika was afraid that Mireille would take that as a slap in the face, but she didn't. Instead the Corsican blonde seemed to be holding back a dam of tears and didn't reply immediately.  
  
"Thank you for the painting," she whispered quietly, when she could control her voice again. "It was the most beautiful gift I have ever received in my life."  
  
"I wanted you to remember us," Kirika, feeling a lump rise in her throat as well. "I didn't know if. . . I would ever see you again."  
  
Mireille leaned over and put her other arm around Kirika as well, drawing her into a tight hug. "I'm so glad I found you," she whispered into the dark locks.  
  
"I love you, Mireiyu."  
  
A sharp voice cut through their thoughts and Mireille and Kirika abruptly broke apart. A flight attendant was watching them with a slight smile on her lips as she announced, "Northwest, Flight 295, direct flight to Providence, Rhode Island, is now boarding."  
  
Mireille's glance dropped to the bags lying forgotten by Kirika's feet. Kirika, too, looked down at them with a mixture of guilt and pain on her face. She picked up the handle of the bag of souvenirs and stood slowly, not looking at Mireille.  
  
Although her mind was screaming at her not to do it, Mireille's hands moved on their own. They uprighted Kirika's other bag for her and wheeled it over so that the handle was by her hand. Kirika's delicate right hand closed over it.  
  
"Merci," she said stiffly, but didn't move otherwise.  
  
Mireille was standing now, her eyes focused on Kirika's face. Kirika, on the other hand, stared down at the floor, not meeting Mireille's eyes. She swallowed hard, tears in her eyes. The sharp voice cut through their thoughts again, this time making Mireille flinch as if a cruel blade had sliced through her flesh.  
  
"This is the final boarding call for Northwest Airlines Flight 295, direct flight to Providence, Rhode Island."  
  
Kirika looked up at last. The seating area around them was almost empty. Her hand tightened on her bag handle until the knuckles were white. She turned and forced herself to meet her partner's eyes.  
  
"Sayonara, Mireiyu."  
  
With that Kirika turned away. Her eyes overflowed with tears until she couldn't see a thing and they streamed unchecked down her face. Her mind scolded her, told her feet to move, told her hand to pull on the plastic handle, yet nothing happened. Then Mireille's voice registered in her distorted mind.  
  
"Onegai." The word was saturated with grief. "Onegai, Kirika."  
  
Kirika's brain stopped instructing her body. She rotated around freely to look at Mireille, who had sunk to her knees, her hands a quavering mass in her lap. She was not meeting Kirika's eyes, but she was crying a river of tears onto the carpet.  
  
"Kirika," whispered Mireille in a trembling voice, slowly lifting her head, "come home with me. Please. Onegai."  
  
There was a very pregnant pause, during which Mireille made no eye contact with Kirika, instead looking at the fringes on her jeans and struggling to keep her jaw from quivering.  
  
And then Kirika let go of her bags, knelt down and put her hand on the Corsican blonde's shoulder, and drew her into a tight hug.  
  
"Let's go," she said, a smile on her face. "Let's go home."  
  
Author's Note: This is the last chapter of "Mireille in Japan". Thank you so much to all my wonderful reviewers!!!! I hope you've liked the story, as I certainly had fun writing it : ) Maybe Crystal should come back in a sequel. . . 


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